Sixteen Weeks
by MissLaurenV
Summary: These voids, they are the spaces that Sheldon has left behind; her life, rounded and smoothed to fit into the mold of his.
1. Chapter 1

**Sixteen Weeks**

* * *

**Author's Note: **After deciding I wouldn't start another multi-chaptered piece, here I am with another one. This first chapter has been written across multiple weeks, and it's only now that I decided to go ahead and post it. A few little, erm, _truths _about this story to warn those who wouldn't be interested:  
1. It's a story about _Amy, _primarily, and Shamy comes as a secondary. Whilst I know I've placed Sheldon's name in the main characters (and don't get me wrong, he's just as imperative to the entire story), my focus is on her. _The Specious Sibling Ultimatum _was my story that centred Sheldon and his past; I decided on something different for this time around.  
2. It is written in the 4 month gap where Sheldon is gone, and is about Amy growing and-to some extent-moving on. It will come back full circle, I promise you.  
3. It's a drama, deal with it. I want to (once again...don't I love doing this?) chuck Amy into the real world. She deserves some good in her life.  
4. I may be slow to update, if I update. It'll really depend on the response I receive.  
To those who do enjoy my work, I hope that you like the first instalment, and be sure to show your love!  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own nor do I profit from _The Big Bang Theory _or any of its related characters.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Five weeks, three days and two hours after Sheldon Cooper left on his impromptu railroad expedition of the American countryside, Amy Farrah Fowler decided it was time to break off the relationship.

Had she thought about it long and hard? Had she spent countless nights tossing and turning on the waves of her waterbed and contemplated the emotional tsunami that would become of her in the aftermath?_ Bitched_ to her socially equipped, gorgeous girlfriends about the perfect ass he had been, and how he'd had it coming all along? No, not really. In fact, Amy had awoken early one morning, calm as she stared at the ceiling fan whirring above her head, and decided it was for the very best. She had padded into her kitchen, poured herself a hot cup of Earl Grey tea, and swished a signature across the very last line on the very last page of their Relationship Agreement—_Termination. _The notice was signed, scanned and sent, all before 3am.

It wasn't that she no longer loved the man—God no—if anything, Amy felt that if she loved him anymore she was at serious risk of abandoning her sanity entirely. Sheldon had proven—on countless occasions—to be a difficult man, and whilst Amy regarded herself as a clever woman with the coercion skills of a cunning prowess, there was only so much resistance a woman could put up with. She had been, in some instances, shamefully manipulative to move the immovable, and painstakingly desperate in others—near to the point of damaging her own self-confidence. It had reaped its slow few rewards, but the changes were never sound—not as she wanted them to be. An anger-fuelled, late-night smooch in the cabin of a train car had barely quantified her request for a kiss at the end of each date night—ending in a sequel that, on his part, lacked emotion. Whilst her urges were sated some, it had grown clearer with each passing day that his enjoyment for their physical intimacy was always fought and trumped by the need for _logic _and _control_. Doctor Sheldon Cooper would not allow himself to feel unless he just _had_ to.

And, she had pondered, perhaps that was precisely what she was counting on. Perhaps she hoped their break up would spur the need to _feel. _

Ultimately, it scarcely mattered what emotional findings Sheldon came to upon receiving the Termination notice. What mattered, she decided, was allowing _herself _to feel—the instances of genuine contentment felt so few and far between at times that she wondered what it was to have a significant other that gave, as well as received. In the time since he had left, Amy had heard from her beau on three occasions: once, to let her know he was safe; twice, to request that she water his budding pot plants, abandoned on the windowsill; and finally—and most jarringly—to tell her that his decision to explore their nation solo had been the best one he had made in years. _Years. _The sting of his comment had taken days to numb, and when she had finally called him some days later—as every other communication they exchanged was, naturally, initiated by her—she found herself unable to rouse a conversation. It was as though all the hurt had lodged squarely in her esophagus and simply refused to budge.

Upon reflection, Amy suspected she felt a little like the abandoned pot plants, however far less wet and tended to.

She had hoped—many times throughout their courting—that it would never come to a bitter parting of ways. She had contemplated it from time to time, when the going got particularly rough, but had stood firm alongside her man. She had pushed and pulled and prodded him along in what she felt was the right direction, only to shove him further away than he had ever been. In that particular moment, as she slouched in her desk chair with her steaming cup burning her fingertips, it had felt like the only option was to end the relationship, before it became unbearable.

_Perhaps_, she had thought, a salty tear dropping into her tea, _this is what's best for us both. _

Five weeks, three days and two hours after Sheldon Cooper left, Amy Farrah Fowler felt her heart break.

* * *

"You heard anything?"

Amy startles on her stool, to find Leonard leaning in her doorway, lunch and a paper tucked under his arm. She shakes her head once and glances back down into the petri dish nestled firmly between her fingers.

There's movement across from her as he joins her, dumping his lunchbox on the stainless. "I'm sorry, Amy," he says. "Last I heard he was in Wisconsin, complaining about the 'inconsiderate, poorly fashioned fisherman who are _clearly _untrained in their craft'—"

"Leonard," she interrupts, taking a long breath, "I understand that you mean well, but I don't want to hear it."

"Sorry," he mumbles, and begins to unwrap his lunch. "You know, the guys and I miss you coming to the cafeteria for lunch—just because Sheldon isn't there doesn't mean you can't join us."

She winces and empties her hands, clasping them instead in front of her. "I am well aware of that fact, you tell me every time you visit my lab," she says stiffly. When she looks over at him, she softens. "You really don't have to attend what is quickly developing into a ridiculous pity party."

He grins back at her, mouth half-full of sandwich. "This? Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

It makes her smirk, and _God _is that a good feeling. She couldn't help but feel she'd brought this unyielding sadness upon herself—it was unreasonable to expect a break-up to be anything more than tolerable, especially when all forms of communication between the two of them had been severed within hours of her email.

"Amy, look," Leonard says, breaking her from her thoughts, "I know you keep telling us that the one we should worry for is Sheldon, but we're all pretty worried about how you're doing—"

"I'm fine," she says, with a tight smile. "So long as he is remaining in contact with you and is enjoying his trip without falling into disarray, I can assure you that there is nothing for you to be concerned about."

He eyes her momentarily, and then slides a plastic container full of grapes across the bench top. "Grape?"

"Thank you." She takes one and pops it straight into her mouth. "I mean it, Leonard: there's nothing for you, or Penny, or anyone else, to be worried about. This was my choice, and I'm fine."

Tugging at the crust of his bread, he raises an eyebrow before looking over at her. "Was it _really _your choice?"

She pushes off her stool and moves to the sink, lathering her hands and rinsing them, twice. Of course it was her choice—she had instigated the break-up, not Sheldon. She turns back to her lunch companion, groaning when she sees him staring her down. "_Leonard_," she says, letting her shoulders slump, "I don't want to go over this again—of course it was my choice—"

"I'm just saying that you didn't have much of a choice," he says, holding his hands up defensively. "You spend four years with a guy like Sheldon, only to have him bail on you without so much as a goodbye, what other options do you have?"

_Be patient; wait until he returns; don't allow this to get the better of you. _She swallows down her guilt and rubs at one eye tiredly. "This was my choice, and I am fine," she repeats, looking away when he gives her a tight-lipped smile. "I am fine."

* * *

Thirteen weeks, two days and six hours after Sheldon left, and Amy still hasn't heard anything.

It wasn't like she was expecting to, she supposes, flopping her romance novel across her chest to stare at the ceiling. She moves through her days seamlessly: seeing her friends; commuting to and from work; eat; sleep; repeat. Perhaps that sounds far more morbid than she means it to be—she hasn't completely lost herself. She just feels somewhat...sad. And who can blame her, really?

The lack of a boyfriend in her life hasn't been quite the bottomless pit she had been anticipating. She had feared, to some extent, that her fun-loving, free-edged mind would drift back to her regimented ways; that she would become the cool, clinical woman she had been once before, but—surprisingly—that shadow hasn't caught up with her just yet. Instead, she finds herself questioning what it is that _she _really wants, for the first time in a long time. Her career stands strong, motivating and inspiring her as usual, and her social life slots seamlessly into her schedule. But there are..._vacancies_. Voids of time where she finds herself perusing a magazine, or surfing through the channels on her television. Or-most disconcertingly—_baking_. Not to say she doesn't enjoy it—quite the opposite, in fact—but it was something her mother had done when her father had first passed on. These chunks of time, often in the evening when there was little else to do, stunk of loneliness, and, truth be told, she isn't quite sure how to cure it. _Perhaps, _she thinks idly, _a screaming infant would fill the hole._

She sniggers to herself and stretches out long in her bed, demanding that she tug herself from her thoughts, and rolls off the edge. No, a baby is not the answer, because—really—the answer is glaringly obvious: they are the spaces that Sheldon has left behind; her life, rounded and smoothed to fit into the mold of his.

"So, what would _Amy _like to do today?" she quizzes herself in response, stripping from her nightgown into her clothes for the day, a Saturday with no plans.

The air is fresh and warm as it hits her skin, exiting her building on an early-morning adventure to no-where in particular. She jams her hands into her pockets, hoping inspiration will strike her. Surprisingly, Glendale is a bustle of activity—couples walking their dogs; runners in their teeny tiny Nikes; mothers pushing prams and cradling their hot drinks. _Tea, _she thinks, the heavenly steam wafting her way, _that is what I want. _

Inconspicuously, she follows a tall gentleman—who appeared to be on a mighty mission—into a noisy coffee shop, huddled between an overflowing florist and a large corporate building. The screech of the steamer and grind of coffee beans is like music to her ears, so she joins the line and eyes their tea menu. And the baked goods, she eyes them a little, too.

"What can I get you, hun?" The waitress behind the counter asks, taking not even a glance in her direction as she scribbles on her notepad.

"One peppermint tea—extra hot," Amy tells her, feeling her cheeks begin to glow as she notices the large amount of tattooed bosom the young woman has confidently on display. She looks to the cookie jars alongside and concedes. "And one of these cookies as well, thank you."

Even still, she doesn't look up. "That's $4.50," she thrusts her a tiny pair of tongs and a paper bag. "Name?"

"Uh, Amy." She stares stupidly at the utensil in her grasp before passing over enough coin. "What exactly am I supposed to do with these?"

"Self-serve, doll," she says, nodding toward the cookie jars. "Five minutes on the tea, we'll call your name when it's ready. Next!"

She shuffles aside, juggling her purse, the tongs and paper bag in her hands, and attempts to inch the sealed jar open. It takes no time before the glass jar slips from the counter and she catches it awkwardly, dropping her belongings to the floor in what is most likely a spectacularly clumsy display. "Dammit..."

She hears a chuckle from behind her as she fumbles, and a figure bends to collect her things from the floor. He rises, hand outstretched with her discarded purse, a smirk on his lips. "You know you have to undo the latch," he says, indicating to the jar, balanced awkwardly in her arms. She frowns, looking from the green-eyed stranger to the very obvious latch on the jar, a little dumbfounded. To prove his point, he reaches out one long fingertip and flicks open the latch. "It's kind of a fine science."

Finally regaining some control over her—normally exceptional—brain, she gracelessly places the jar back onto the counter and takes her purse from him. "Uh, thanks," she says, and looks up at him. Like, _really _looks at him—lightly-bearded jawline, broad chest, dirty blonde hair tugged back in a short pony-tail. She clears her throat in preference of _another _noise building in her chest. "Do you work here?"

"No, next door," he says, the smirk lingering.

"You're a florist?" she blurts, unable to control herself.

He laughs, a rich, open sound that seems to somehow reverberate through her chest. "A journalist," he says, and suddenly the shirt and suit pants make sense. "One who's clearly had a cookie or two from latched jars in his time."

It's her turn to laugh—a sound that escapes her in a goofy hiccup—and she feels an odd thump in her chest as he grins back at her. _Hoo..._

"Tea for Amy!"

She startles at the sudden yelling of her name, peering over to the barrister blindly holding out a steaming cup in her direction. She takes it, and drops the teeny tongs and crumpled paper bag—cookie long forgotten—onto the counter. "Thanks," she says, but her eye has fallen back to the way-too-good-to-be-true Samaritan now placing his own order. "Bye."

He gives her a lop-sided smile. "Enjoy your tea, Amy."

She rushes out the door, hands cupped around her hot drink as she attempts to steady her breathing with the minty steam. Her hands feel jittery, and she chews at her lip like a mad woman, demanding that she control herself. _What _was _that?_

It isn't until she's half-way home that she realises he took note of her name.

* * *

The very next day Amy finds herself stopping by at the same coffee shop.

_It's a detour, _she tells herself firmly, as she steps over the threshold to gaze at the menu overhead. _On your way to Penny's—nothing more than a quick detour. _

She orders herself yet another tea-still grappling with the reasoning behind her stop-off—and sips at it gently on a stool right opposite the coffee machine. Each time the bell jingles, signalling another thirsty patron, she casts her eye over her shoulder, because _maybe_, just _maybe—_

"He doesn't work Sundays, unless there's a big story to run," a voice suddenly pipes up, and she snaps her head toward the source of the sound. It's the same buxom waitress, sporting a checked headscarf that matches the tea towel drying a cup between her fingers.

"Sorry?"

"Jake, the guy you all but fell over yesterday," she says, giving her a look. "I'll tell him you stopped by, if you'd like."

Amy shakes her head fiercely. "Oh, no, that's okay—I have a..." she drifts off; 'boyfriend' is hardly applicable any longer. "Never mind. And I wasn't stopping by. For him, that is."

"Sure you weren't," she teases. "Just make sure you don't give yourself whip lash flinging that head around every time someone walks through the door."

Ducking her head, Amy attempts to hide the blush that has risen to her cheeks. "You've gotten the wrong idea," she says. A moment passes, and Amy can't resist. "So, it was...Jake, did you say?"

"Yep," the waitress replies, grinning. "Really nice guy, I've known him a few years now—hard worker, great sense of humour." She leans back against the counter, crossing her arms under her bust and her combat boots at the ankle. "Shame he's not my type."

Amy stares at her momentarily, and is suddenly overcome by the need to get out of there. "I have to go," she says, scrambling for her bag. "Thanks for the tea."

She's flung the door open before she hears the waitress call out playfully: "I'll let him know you stopped by, then?"

She pauses, before shooting a look over her shoulder. "Don't you dare!"

* * *

"Ames, hey!" Penny says, ushering her inside as she arrives on her doorstep. "You've come just at the right time—Leonard's at his place packing and I'm _desperately _trying to nail the art of cooking pasta—try it for me?"

Amy follows her across to the kitchen, tossing her bag on the couch as she goes by. The small apartment is in disarray—boxes of Leonard's belongings piled on every free surface. "Sure," she says, taking a seat on one of the underwear-donning bar stools.

Penny extracts a single strand of spaghetti from the rolling water and hands it to her on a fork. "I hope it's good," she says, watching Amy expectantly as she takes a bite.

"Mmm," Amy says, chewing at the half-crunchy pasta. "How long has it been on for?"

"Three minutes," she says, tipping the hot concoction through a strainer. "Just like it says on the packet."

Amy slides the packaging across the bench top, skimming the directions. "Penny?"

"Yeah?"

"This says _thirteen _minutes."

Penny groans, tipping her blonde locks back in frustration. "Well, that settles it, then. Leonard will have to be the housewife—God knows, I'm better off in the tool shed anyway..."

Amy frowns at her. "You don't _have _a tool shed."

"Minor detail," she says, brushing the comment aside. She snatches up a bottle of wine in one hand, and two wine glasses in the other. Within no time, Amy has a full glass of red between her lips. "I thought you were coming by around midday, by the way—it's now, what, four?"

"Yeah," she replies vaguely, swishing the red liquid in her glass. "I got...waylaid."

Penny narrows her eyes over the rim of her wine glass, before placing it down to examine her further. "You're acting weird," she says. "Waylaid _where?_"

"Nowhere," Amy says quickly—too quickly—and flattens out her skirt across her lap. "At home—you know, couldn't decide what to wear—"

Reaching across the bench, Penny grasps Amy's cheeks between her red-tipped fingers. "You're blushing! And is that _lip gloss?_"

Amy bats her best friend's hands away. "I am perfectly entitled to wear make-up if I so desire—it _was_ you that encouraged me to indulge in such pampering—"

"Who is he?"

She snaps her head up to look at Penny, who know has her arms folded neatly beneath her bust. "He? There's no _he_," she says, and gulps down on nearly half the glass of wine.

There's silence while Penny drives a glare into her skull. "Amy Farrah Fowler," she growls, "I won't ask you again..."

"_He _is no one," Amy says, somewhat exasperated. "_He_ is a weekend of wondering what I'd like to do with my life, now that I'm living for me and me alone; _he _is the timely reminder that I am, in fact, a female, possibly in dire need of a confidence boost that is _well _overdue; _he _is—"

"Hey, hey!" Penny interrupts. "I didn't mean to upset you, and I'm _really _sorry I asked."

"It's fine," Amy replies with a sigh. "I am finding myself a little lost since my break-up with Sheldon. This weekend has amounted to the largest period of time I have spent in my own company."

Penny leans her forearms on the counter. "I don't need to tell you that break-ups are never easy—you're living it," she says softly. "You're not alone, you know—you have all of us, right here for you."

She gives her a small smile and cups her hands around her glass. Penny had been remarkably unsurprised when Amy had informed her of the break-up, and had told her that whilst she was sad, she also wanted what was best for her best friend—and at that point in time, Sheldon was not it.

There's a momentary silence before Penny leans in a little closer. "But come on," she says, a smile on her lips, "there's a guy, right?"

Amy bites down a smile of her own. "Penny, it's barely been two months. Aren't you supposed to tell me it's _too soon_; that I should be _focusing on me_; that there's _plenty of fish in the_—"

"I knew it!" Penny bursts. "Tell me _everything_."

"There's nothing to tell," Amy replies, attempting to calm her friend. "I went to a café near my apartment, made a complete fool of myself and was aided by a very handsome man in a business suit. With a ponytail. Who remembered my name." She purses her lips, demanding herself to stop. "It was nothing, really."

Penny laughs and quirks an eyebrow. "Sure doesn't sound like _nothing_," she says. "And this was…?"

"Saturday morning."

"And you were waylaid today _because…_?"

Amy sighs. "I may have made the executive decision that Bean and Gone Café make the nicest peppermint teas I've had in quite some time…"

"I see," Penny says knowingly, with a slow shake of her cropped blonde curls. "Ditching your bestie for _peppermint tea_…"

"No, no, he wasn't there," Amy says quickly, and then bites her tongue. "_God_…"

Topping up her wine glass, Penny levels with her. "Tomorrow morning—you and me, breakfast at this café," she says. "I want to see what all of the fuss is about…"

"Honestly, Penny, Sheldon is your friend," Amy replies, huffing. "Social convention would dictate that it's wrong of you to be coaxing me to…_tail _Jake…"

"He has a name!" Penny says victoriously, however—noting the look on Amy's face—quickly sobers. "Sweetie, we all love Sheldon, but—"

"I've heard this before."

Penny rounds the counter to sit in the stool alongside her. "We all love Sheldon, but right now, my priority is seeing _you _happy again," she says earnestly. "If some long-haired lawyer can help you gain some confidence then—"

"He's a journalist."

"_Journalist_, whatever," she corrects, "then I'm not going to stop you. Sometimes it's during a break-up that you learn the most about yourself—I'd know, seeing Leonard with Priya for months kind of teaches you a thing or two…"

Amy hesitates. "Even if I wanted to talk to Jake, I wouldn't know how. No guy has ever looked at me twice before," she considers her statement, "not even Sheldon."

Penny gives her a look. "I can tell you Sheldon looked you over _more _than twice," she says. "Look, I'm not telling you to marry this guy—just have a coffee. Talk. Make out. Get it out of your system."

"Penny!"

She grins. "Breakfast, tomorrow—I'll show you how it's done."

* * *

"Would you stop _fidgeting!_ Just sit on your hands or something, for God's sake…"

Amy does as she's told and slips her fingers beneath her buttocks. "I'm _sorry_, I can't help it," she hisses at Penny, who is huddled into a booth with her in the very back corner of her new favourite café. The shop is a bustle with customers getting their pre-work fix of coffee and cake, mothers' groups taking up space with their monster prams and waiters dodging business people and children alike. "It's _very _busy…"

"We'll spot him, don't worry," Penny replies, practically reading her mind. She takes a large bite of her bagel, narrowing her eyes. "Should have brought Bernadette—she could have scoped out the place unnoticed…"

Amy ducks her head, attempting to get a clear shot of the counter. "Her height-challenged qualities would have been of benefit, indeed," she agrees. "We've been here over a half hour—there's no need to stay, he's clearly not coming—"

"Man with a ponytail, five o'clock!"

She casts a glance to the door, where a skinny man with a ponytail longer than her own came trundling through. "Uh, no," she says, making a face. "Less…_homeless_…"

"Order for table twelve." A waiter announces, sliding a tiny plate off his tray and onto their table.

"Oh, we didn't order anything else," Amy says, smiling kindly at the young man.

He shrugs. "For…" he checks his order pad briefly, "Amy? Yeah, it was sent by that guy over there."

Pointing across the room, Amy spots the back of a blonde head, clicking away at a laptop with a newspaper sprawled across his table. She snatches at Penny's wrist. "_That's him!_"

Penny gives the waiter—who is giving them both an unimpressed stare—a smile. "Thanks, sweetie," she says, and he saunters off. "_Where?"_

But Amy is no longer looking over to her admirer—instead, she's staring at the chocolate-chip cookie sitting proudly on a white doily. She shakes her head and begins to grin, snatching up the plate. "One second," she says to Penny, and rises from her spot.

"Amy, _Amy!_ Get back here!"

She ignores her and weaves between a highchair and a faux plant to where Jake is seated. When she approaches his spot, he doesn't even spare her a glance—he is engrossed in his work, strong brows furrowed behind heavy-framed glasses as he reads over something quickly. "Did you just buy me a cookie?" she says flatly, surprising even herself with her sudden confidence.

He looks up and gives her a heart-stopping smirk. "To make up for the one you missed out on on Saturday," he says. When she doesn't respond—primarily because she has realised his shirt sleeves are rolled up and his forearms are, you know, _there_—he sits back. "You're welcome."

She gapes at him for a moment—mouth bobbing open and closed like a fish. _Where did that confidence swim off to? _"Um, well, yes, thank-you—"

"Would you like to sit with me?" he interrupts, slipping off his glasses and bundling his paper into a neat pile, as though he already knew the answer. "We can share the cookie, if it'd make you feel better."

She spares a glance back over her shoulder to Penny, who nods like a mad woman. "Okay," she says uneasily, sliding into the seat across from him. The cookie rests between them unassumingly, and he shrugs before breaking off a portion and wolfing it down. His boyish behaviour makes her smile, and he grins right back.

"I hope your friend doesn't mind that I've stolen you away," he says, and then frowns. "Although she looks quite pleased with this outcome…"

Amy feels her cheeks flare. "Yeah, I don't think she minds," she says, looking over to where Penny gives her a thumbs up and mouths '_mission accomplished'_. The blush extends down her neck.

Jake laughs. "And what a mission it was," he says, meeting Amy's eye. "I'm Jake, by the way."

She refrains from the need to tell him she already knew that piece of information. "I'm Amy…but you already knew that," she says, and pauses. "Were we really _that _obvious?"

He crumbles away another section of the cookie and gives her an exaggerated shake of his head. "Not at all!" He smirks again, and she feels a gentle pang in her chest. "I can hardly talk, I just sent you a _cookie_—which, by the way, I am eating." He throws back another mouthful. "It's really good."

"Well, um, it wasn't our intention to be obvious—not that we were trying to—" she cuts herself off and huffs, staring into her lap as she laughs at herself, just a little. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this…"

"I can tell."

Her head snaps up to look at him, expecting criticism; expecting a cruel taunt; expecting it all to have been a big joke. But he's _smiling. _Kindly. Whilst her many conversations with Sheldon across the years had been stimulating, and most certainly exciting, it was rare that she drew upon idle chit-chat with a man that wasn't a part of her social group or workplace—and she was struggling to come up with, well, anything. "Uh…"

"Ask me anything," he says, leaning back on his chair and lacing his fingers over his flat stomach.

She sweeps her eye over him, paying special attention to the fleck of darkness in his rugged facial hair and the blonde strands of hair he continuously brushes back from his face. "Is it hard to maintain such long hair?"

He chuckles and shakes his head—as though she's a comedian, or some form of intriguing mystery. "Not what I was expecting, but no, it's not," he says, and then grasps at the very short ponytail bunched at the nape of his neck. "You see, I'm sponsored by L'Oreal, and they take care of all my hair care needs." He gives her a wicked grin. "Because I'm worth it."

The joke sends her into a fit of laughter, one that she could feel running down to her toes. "Well, clearly L'Oreal doesn't think I'm worth it," she says, "they don't make a shampoo that doesn't wreak havoc with my dandruff—"

A sudden, blonde figure appears right alongside her, interrupting what was surely becoming a winning conversation. "Hi, I'm Penny," she gives him a beautiful smile. "You must be Jake."

Jake nods slowly, his eye moving from Penny across to Amy. He cocks his head and narrows his eyes, a smile still on his lips. "Nice to meet you, Penny," he says. "My apologies for stealing Amy away from you..."

"Not at all!" She drops Amy's handbag on the table between them. "Now, I have to get to work—but don't worry, Ames, you know how close that _new job of mine _is, I'll just walk...I wouldn't want to interrupt your little _chat_..."

Amy gapes at her mischievous bestie, who is grinning proudly at her getaway plan. _She's leaving me alone to fend for myself! _"Oh, no, it's okay—"

"Actually," Jake says, "I do need to be getting back to the office—and despite popular belief, it isn't this cafe." He suddenly looks a little bashful, and tears off the corner of his newspaper to scribble a bunch of numbers down. He slips it across the table to Amy. "Next time, it's my turn to ask _you _anything." He bundles up his belongings and stands to leave, giving Penny a smile. "Nice to meet you, Penny."

"You, too," she says as he heads away and out the door. Immediately, she flops into the chair opposite. "Okay—he is _hot! _I was _not _expecting that—no offense, of course..."

But Amy wasn't listening. She was too busy staring at the blocky phone number scrawled across the obituaries, twirling it between her fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sixteen Weeks**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for your fantastic feedback! Glad you're enjoying it. Please refer to and remember my notes from the first chapter should you have any concerns...as I've mentioned, this is an Amy-centric story, clearly not focused on Shamy right at the moment. We're throwing her out there, seeing what she can do. Also, I've had a couple of complaints about the length of time between updates...sorry, guys, but this is the best I can do. Of course, your lovely reviews, follows and favourites keep me inspired, so be sure to leave your thoughts. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows.  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own nor do I profit from _The Big Bang Theory _or any of its related characters.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

It is rare that Amy Farrah Fowler would ever sit, cross-legged, on her unmade bed like a gossiping teenage girl. It was in this unique instance, however, that there was no better position—and that was nothing short of the truth.

The phone cradled in the palm of her hands burns as she stares absently at the bundle of numbers lined across her screen. "You can do this, Fowler," she says encouragingly. "It's a phone call. Just one lousy phone call."

She hits the green button. And then the red.

And then the green again. It rings—half a dial tone.

But then she punches the red.

"What am I _doing_?" She growls and throws herself back into the pillows, slinging an arm across her face. The entire process should not have been so difficult—besides, she was a successful, desirable young woman. Wasn't she?

She huffs, staring determinedly at her ceiling. "_Hi, _this is Amy Farrah Fowler. We met at Bean and Gone Cafe just the other day—you know, I almost fell flat on my face. You bought me a cookie..." Shaking her head, she tries again. "Yeah, hey, it's Amy. Yep, _the _Amy. Girl of your dreams, right here." This time, she clears her throat, lowering her voice slightly. "Hello, sexy. Amy Farrah Fowler here. How's it going?"

Suddenly, there is activity between her still-crossed legs. A voice, deep and masculine, is hollering down the phone line and directly up her skirt. "Hello? _Hello?"_

She scrambles for the cellphone, holding it firmly against her ear. "Yes, hello?" _So much for the red button..._

"Um," Jake's voice says uneasily, and she feels her stomach swim, "you rang, whoever you are?"

"Oh, yeah, hey!" She laughs airily, feeling heat rise up her neck. "It's Amy Farrah Fowler, we met just the other day at—"

"Amy, hi!" There is a hint of amusement in his warm voice as he chuckles. "Were you just talking to yourself...?"

She swings off the edge of her bed to pace the room. "No, no, you must have misheard—the, uh, TV is on," she says lamely. "So, how're you doing?" _Good start!_

"Really well, now," he says sweetly. She suddenly feels like he is right across from her again, in all his hunky glory. "I'm glad you called. I thought this list of questions I had for you was going to go unanswered—and it's taking up a lot of space on my notepad...that's usually reserved for important things. Like lunch orders and lottery numbers."

The blush extends to the very tips of her ears. "Oh," she says, unbearably flattered. "I'd hate to keep you from listing such crucial information..."

"Easily fixed," he says casually. "Let me take you out. Then my notepad will be question-free."

She smiles, but feels a tightening in her chest at the memory of her last date night with a man. _Oh you'd _love _that! Why don't we get engaged, buy a house, start a family and spend our sunset years together! _"You know what," she says decisively, "I'd love to."

* * *

"You're _what?" _

"Is he a _total _dreamboat? Businessmen are always so mysterious..."

"Are you _sure _this is such a good idea?"

"Hey!" Penny snaps, clunking her plastic fork into her noodles as she glares at her friends. "I expected more from you guys. Amy _deserves _this. You try dating Sheldon Cooper—who, I might remind you, _is not here_—for four years and see how you come out the other side of it..."

Leonard, who has said nothing since Amy's announcement of her date with Jake, looks over at Amy from his spot in the armchair. "I think it's a great idea," he says kindly. "You can't wait on Sheldon forever."

"Thank you, Leonard," Amy replies. "In reply to your questions: Howard, I am going on a date, and I suggest you get your hearing checked, Rajesh, I'm not sure what a 'dreamboat' is, but under the assumption that means attractive, I can assure you he is, and Bernadette, no, I am not sure this is a good idea." She sucks in a breath. "But I'm going to do it anyway."

Her other bestie gives her a smile from beside her. "So long as I get to meet him, I need to know that his intentions are honourable," she warns lightly. "And that he's good enough for you."

"I'm sure his intentions are completely honourable-not all men are pigs, you know," Raj adds, pointing his fork up at Bernadette from his spot on the floor. "Just ask Emily—she'll tell you about how _noble _I am—"

"Raj, I don't think Amy cares about _honour _and _nobility_," Howard pipes up, and promptly wriggles his eyebrows at Amy. "Maybe it's about time she _got hers..._"

"Howie!"

"_What?"_

Amy gives him a bitter smirk. "Whether 'getting mine' is on the agenda or not," she says, "it would be nice to get to know him as a friend. He seems like a nice guy."

"And he's _hot!_" Penny bursts, twirling slightly on the desk chair. "You know the type: nerdy, kind of rugged, but with this air of sexy professionalism about him—_so hot!_"

Bernadette and Raj nod vigorously, whilst Leonard slumps low in his chair. "Fiancé sitting right here..."

"Where are you going? I hope it's some place _romantic..._" Raj asks, cupping his chin in his hand.

Amy scrapes the last of her rice from her plate. "He said it was a surprise, and to wear something warm."

"A _surprise? _I wonder what it could be!"

Penny, once again, bounces about in her chair, Thai food leaping from her lap. "Have you thought about what you're going to _wear_?" She doesn't give Amy a chance to reply. "You've got to look banging—and layers are totally your thing!"

"A sensible dress, some tights, a cute scarf..." Bernadette adds.

"Screw sensible!" Penny says. "_Sexy."_

Raj frowns, shaking his head. "You don't want to come on too strong, or give him the wrong idea." He turns to Amy. "But still make sure you're showing off a little something..."

"I'll figure it out, don't worry," Amy says, desperate to shut down their incessant advice-giving. "I've got plenty of Date Night outfits I can choose from—" The thought stops her short, and she feels her jaw lock. Perhaps she _would _go out and buy something new.

Howard clears his throat. "Speaking of...well, yeah," he looks to Leonard, "how's he going?"

"Haven't heard from him much," Leonard replies, his glance darting to the empty spot beside Amy. "Last time he called he was at his mom's."

Amy draws in a long breath. To hell with Sheldon Cooper being a weak spot in conversation for the group. "So, is he coming home any time soon?"

Leonard's eyebrows raise briefly. "Uh, not sure," he says. "I helped him apply for a four month sabbatical, so soon, I would think."

"He'd better be back for the engagement party next month," Penny mutters. "He hasn't even RSVP'd yet..."

Bernadette, mouth half full with food, suddenly whacks Amy on the arm. "That reminds me," she says, "we have some _organising _to do!"

The engagement party itself was fully planned—Bernadette was proving to be an efficient Maid of Honour, in spite of Amy's sulking about already having had her turn. "What could possibly be left to do?"

"I'm not _listening!_" Penny says loudly, pressing her hands over her ears.

Bernadette rolls her eyes. "Oh, quit it—it's your engagement party, not a bridal shower," she snaps. "Lucky we helped out in the first place..."

Amy grins as her best friends quarrel. The engagement party truly was only weeks away. Perhaps she would take Jake, since she no longer had a date. The mere thought set her stomach churning—imagine, Sheldon Cooper in the same room with her new love interest, growing jealous; seeing what he was missing out on. She took a long breath. What _was _important was getting through their first date casualty-free—_that _was her focus.

But perhaps she would take Jake along, all the same.

* * *

"Oh, _Amy_, you did _what?" _

Amy sighs and presses the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she folds a pile of laundry. "I broke up with Sheldon, mother," she repeats, and her mother lets out a breathless cry on the other end. "You never liked him in the first place, I don't see what the problem is—"

"Irrelevant," her mother groans. Amy can nearly see her reclining on her couch, an arm across her eyes. _Drama queen, as always. _"In spite of disliking the boy, I was _finally _managing to convince my dear friends that you weren't going to wind up a hermit." There's a pause, before she whispers: "Or a _lesbian!_"

"Oh, _mother_," Amy scolds. "Even if I _were _a lesbian there is nothing wrong with that—you spend far too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks—"

"And now!" Her mother ignores her; as if she had never spoken. "What will they think? My only daughter—destined for a life alone. No romance, no children. A sparkling career, nonetheless, but no one to truly _love her—"_

"Well, I _do _have a date," she blurts, and immediately regrets her decision. _Why, why did I tell her _that_? _

This announcement seems to perk her mother up slightly. "A date? So soon after the break-up?" She makes a noise that is akin to astonishment. "On the other hand, perhaps I'll be convincing Anne and Margaret that you're not a floozy."

"It's been over two months," Amy says flatly, though she isn't sure she has convinced even herself. "And it's only a date—I'm not going to marry the man..."

"What's his name? What does he _do?" _Her mother persists. "And over _two months? _Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Amy tosses the pair of socks she was neatly rolling into a ball back into the basket and pinches the bridge of her nose. "His name is Jake. He's a journalist. Yes, over two months, and I didn't tell you because we haven't spoken in six weeks."

The line goes silent momentarily. "Well, whose fault is that, then?"

_Given that I never make the time to call you, avoid your calls, and when I do call you're always out to lunch, both of ours, _she thinks bitterly. _But mostly mine_. "It doesn't matter. You know now, that's what is important," she says.

Her mother groans, for the second time. "It _does _matter, Amy," she whines. "You are all I have—the only _family_ I have. It makes me so sad when you never call—oh, hold on, someone's at the door—Nancy, hello!" There's a squeak of laughter and gushing over the phone, and Amy pulls the phone away to avoid the screeching. "Amy, darling, I have to go—apparently I was late for my lunch date! Talk to you soon, dear!"

The call is disconnected, and Amy is left staring at the phone. She shakes her head. "Whatever you say, mother..."

* * *

First, she takes a long, hot shower. She lathers her hair with soap, shaves her legs. She sings along to Aretha Franklin, uses three towels to dry herself entirely.

Second, she attempts to curl her hair. She coats her eyelashes in mascara, paints her lips a nude pink. She tangles her arms around her legs to paint her toenails a matching shade. She tugs on a knit dress, rolls on some dark tights. She adds a scarf, a navy coat.

Third, she waits. She sits on her couch, on a barstool. She checks her watch, makes sure she has packed everything she needs. She eyes her phone.

When there's a knock at the door, she jumps, now comfortably located in the chair beside her front door. He's nine minutes late, and she intends on telling him so. "You're late, Jake," she says as she swings open the door-but it hardly matters once she gets a look at him. _Oh my..._

"Didn't realise nine minutes qualified as _being late_," he says cheekily, running a hand through his thick, fair hair. It settles around his face, sitting in the crook of his neck, and his eyes could not have been any greener. When she doesn't respond—primarily because she's too busy gawking at him—he sobers. "Sorry. It won't happen next time," he adds sheepishly.

Amy pulls herself from her own thoughts, giving him a smile. "No, it's fine, actually," she responds, snatching up her bag and heading out the door. "My ex—" She bites her tongue—hard enough to draw blood, she suspects. Penny was right; if she didn't control herself, it was just going to burst out. "I'm very accustomed to people being freakishly on time."

They begin to descend the stairs, and she notices him give her a side-glance. "Well, I can assure you that's something I'm _not_," he says with a slight smile. "You're all rugged up, I see?"

"You said to wear something warm," she replies. "Hopefully it's alright—"

He opens the apartment building door for her. "You look great," he assures her, and suddenly she's not sure if it's the fresh night air or his compliment that's making her cheeks flush. He digs in his back pocket and pulls out car keys, pointing them at the sporty, silver car sitting out front.

When he races ahead to grab the passenger door, Amy's eye follows the grey top that hugs his torso, long sleeves pushed up his forearms, and down the length of his dark jeans. "So do you," she says honestly, and ducks into the car. _He looks fit—maybe he plays some kind of sport..._

"Thank you," he says as he drops into the driver's side. Within seconds, they are on their way. "Any idea where we're going?"

Amy shakes her head. "Not a clue," she says. "Given the instructed attire, somewhere cold."

"Well observed," he says playfully, raising an eyebrow in her direction. "While we've got some time to kill, I think it's time for one of those questions."

"Okay."

"Alright," he sits up straighter, and stretches his neck, clearing his throat. Amy tries to resist the smile that appears at his silliness. "First question: how did you know my name?"

Her eye snaps to him. He is smirking. "You told me...?"

"That sounded like a question," he states, and glances over at her. "Your friend, Penny, she knew my name—I assume you told her, but I hadn't told _you _yet. How did you know?"

Suddenly the lights whizzing by her out the window seem mighty interesting, and she stumbles. "Well, I, uh—" she begins, "one of the waitresses told me!" _Not a lie, but not the whole truth—good work, Fowler!_

He is not so easily fooled. "Oh? Did she tell you _after _you left _after _me on Saturday?"

"I came back the next day," she says quickly. "For another tea. We got talking, and your name came up." She looks over the neon-coloured dials lighting up the dashboard and feigns interest. "What do _these _do?"

Jake laughs. "As the little symbol would indicate, that controls the volume," he says. "It's your turn."

She chews the inside of her lip. "Okay," she says. "What kind of journalism work do you do?"

"Investigative, mostly," he tells her. "Makes for a mean reputation."

She narrows her eyes at him, doing her very best to be playful. "Are you trying to uncover the truth about my rats?"

"What?" He chuckles, looking over at her. "Your _rats? _Are you some kind of scientist?"

"Yes, actually, I am," she says proudly. "I'm a neurobiologist—I study the cells in the nervous system-"

"Oh, behaviour, fantastic," he replies, nodding. "Fascinating stuff—so you're performing research on rats at the moment?"

Amy skips over his question. "You know neurobiology?"

He laughs—with good reason, too, Amy thinks; the question was rather stupid. "I wouldn't say I 'know' it," he says. "Whilst biology and I weren't friends at school, I had a pretty active interest in psychology at college." He shrugs. "There was a bit of crossover work, so I got to know a little about the field."

"Wow," she says, perhaps a little more surprised than she should have been. "I mean—"

He frowns at her. "Hey, I may only be a _mere journalist, _but there is something between my ears," he grins. "And you can rest assured, I'm not trying to expose the truth about your rats. Tell me about what you're researching at the moment."

"Regret, actually," she says. "Regret is a cognitive behaviour we've always thought was uniquely human. When we feel regret, the orbitofrontal cortex is active—my research has proven that when a rat recognises it has made a mistake, or missed an opportunity, this same part of the brain is active." She bites back the need to go into deeper detail—Penny's orders. "It's incredibly useful information—fascinating indeed."

Jake nods, listening intently. "Interesting stuff," he agrees, and she watches as his toned arms, donning a leather wristband, come to rest at the base of the steering wheel. "Here's hoping neither of our orbitofrontal cortexes are active this evening." He gives her a smile. "I'm pretty damn sure mine won't be."

She hadn't even realised that they had pulled up at their destination—instead, she is too busy watching _that _smile, and the gaze that swept over her. He nods his head toward the entrance to the huge building sitting before them. "Come on."

* * *

"Steady there, it's okay—I've got ya..."

Truth be told, Amy had never ice skated before. Not once. The closest she'd ever come to ice skating was a pair of vintage roller skates that her mother had begrudgingly donated to her after they became too small—and the only place they'd ever gotten her was flat on her buttocks in the middle of their local park. Now, it seemed was going to be no different.

Wait, yes it was. This time, she had a handsome man at her side to watch her face plant. With grace, of course.

"Thank you," she mumbles, as the shiny blades skid beneath her feet. _This is hopeless..._

Jake has her by the arm, his large hand gripping her firmly beneath her elbow as she steadies herself. "You sure you've never done this before? You're skating like a pro!"

She glares up at him as he grins. "Unfortunately not," she says scathingly. "So it's extremely _fortunate _that I am so very talented without an ounce of instruction."

"Point your toes in a little," he says, gliding around the front of her. He lets go, and she realises she has complete balance. "There you go!"

A grin spreads across her face, and she holds out her arms to steady herself. "Okay!" She teeters slightly as Jake runs a ring around her. "This is all well and good, but how do I move?"

"You need to lean into this foot, and push out and away with the other," he says, grazing her right thigh with his fingertips. "Just nice and fluid, or you'll wind up on your ass."

She tentatively does what he tells her. "You think I haven't been there already..." she grumbles. She maintains a short line of motion, and then begins to panic. "Now what?"

When she wobbles, he grabs her hand. "Bring your left leg back to centre, and do the same with the right foot."

A few jerky movements and she is gaining some momentum. Jake moves slowly with her, his hand hovering above her own as she gets a feel for the action. "And how exactly do I stop?" she asks, as the barrier grows nearer and nearer.

"Just bend your knees inward slightly and push out with your feet," he says. She wonders how ridiculous she looks—but settles instead for being thankful that she could glide in the first place. "That's it..."

She stops at the barrier, gripping onto it for dear life. "Okay..."

"See, like a pro!" Jake says as scrapes in beside her, giving her a beaming smile.

Amy casts her eye around to the white rink, littered with children and couples. A few free feet before her ignite her confidence, and she pushes off, doing as she was directed. The ice slides beneath her rickety feet but she maintains her balance. "Like everything else, practice makes perfect," she says aloud.

"True," Jake says from beside her. "So, you're a neurobiologist—a suspicious one at that—who has sneaky ways of finding out her potential date's name. What does someone like yourself like to do in her spare time?"

She pokes her tongue out as she concentrates, but manages to maintain the conversation. It was a good question, really—one she wasn't so sure of herself. "I like to...read," she started, and cringes at how basic that sounded. "I enjoy going to lectures, and libraries. I love to hang out with my best friends, Penny and Bernadette. I've recently begun baking, and Shel—an old friend of mine got me hooked on a television show called _The Walking Dead_—it's about—"

"Zombies, yeah I know," he says, nodding, and then points at himself. "Huge fan. Didn't expect you to be into that."

She shrugs. "Didn't expect myself to be either," she says honestly. "Daryl Dixon eat your heart out."

He chuckles. "Your turn again."

"What about you?" she asks, tagging on to his previous question. "What is it that you do in your spare time? Aside from taking women out to ice rinks."

He completes a loop around her slowly moving body. "Well, I too like to read," he says, giving her a grin. "I race go-karts, professionally." There's a pause, and she looks over at him. "When I was young, I was training to become a Formula One driver—told I could be 'one of the best of the generation'. I trained, hard. Too hard."

"What happened?"

He swishes around to stop in front of her, and tugs up the remainder of his long sleeve to reveal an angry, purple scar webbing up his bicep toward his shoulder. "Clipped the front of another car, flipped—I was doing around 130 miles per hour," he stops, giving her a tight-lipped smile. "Needless to say, my racing career went out the window, and as did three months of my life."

Amy feels a knot grow in her stomach. "I'm sorry," she says.

"Long time ago," he says, his natural chirpiness returning quickly. "Aside from when I'm being a dare devil with a death-wish, I hang out with my dog, Charlie, and collect retro furniture." He shoots out a hand to help her when she wobbles. "I'm pretty damn cool."

She laughs. "Sounds like it..."

"Okay," he says, stroking the hair on his jawline jovially. "Where'd you grow up?"

"Glendale. Favourite food?"

He grins. "Hamburgers. Pet peeve?"

"Pen clicking."

"Oh, good one," he says. "What's your family like?"

She raises an eyebrow in his direction. "Whilst I may not be familiar with this game, I do believe it's my turn," she chides. "What's _your _family like?"

There's a moment of hesitation before he answers. "Nuclear," he says. "Mom's a dentist, Dad's a semi-retired lawyer. Sister has a husband and two kids." He gives her a lopsided smile. "You?"

The question stuns her a little. Sheldon never asked her about her family—no one did. "Uh," she says, casting her eye down to her feet. "Just my mother and I. I don't really have any family."

Ice scraping is the only sound that lingers between them for a moment, and—by some miracle—Jake seems to sense her discomfort. "I can donate two nephews if you'd like—Sarah'd be happy to get rid of them some days," he says jokingly. She smiles back at him as he skates backward, face to face with her. "Your turn."

"Hmm," she murmurs, trying to think of a good question. "You can inform me if this is too direct—as I mentioned to you the other day, I'm not very good at this—but why did you give me your number?"

He stops, frowning. "Why _wouldn't _I?" he asks sincerely. "You seem nice, genuine, smart. And pretty."

The simplicity of his words steals her cool breath away—or at least that's what she _thinks. _A small child, racing across the icy surface, plows into her hip and sends her stumbling forward, her ankle giving way beneath her painfully. She collides with Jake's chest as he catches her, strong arms encircling her frame. Suddenly his scent is all around her, along with the breadth of his chest and the warmth of his breath. "Whoa," he murmurs, holding tight. "Damn kids. You okay?"

She's not certain whether it's the shooting pain in her ankle, or his compliment from mere moments ago, but she finds she can't reply. Instead, her feet decide to tangle further beneath her, and Jake is left to haul her upward. It feels like a scene out of one of Penny's silly romantic movies—with the chilly air, the laughter and chatter of people around them, the inches between their lips. "Thank you," she breaths.

"It's okay," he replies, and she knows he understands that her gratitude is for his kind words, not for catching her. "Falling's normal. Happens to the best of us."

When she attempts to set herself upright, her foot barely supports her weight without causing significant pain. "I think I have injured my ankle..."

"And even pros get injuries," he teases, slinging an arm beneath her and guiding her off the rink. "Let's get you off the ice, Amy."

* * *

"Okay—red M&Ms or blue M&Ms?"

"Oh, _come on_—they taste the same!"

"They _clearly _do not," Jake scoffs. "I will put you to a taste-testing challenge and _prove _that they are completely different—and that blue is the _clear _winner."

Amy 's eyes were watering from all of the laughing she had done during the past twenty minutes. An unnecessary wheelchair trip, raucous drive home, and the mighty feat of her stairwell, and—whilst the pain in her ankle was relatively intense—somehow the frivolity of their journey home had overtaken her discomfort. "I will take you up on that challenge, good sir," she tells him.

He tightens his grip around her rib cage and aids her up the last few steps to her apartment. The warmth from his hand has left an imprint on her body, she is certain. Nothing has ever felt so _hot _against fully clothed skin before...

"Alright, here we are," he says, untangling himself from her as she riffles for her keys. "Despite a potentially sprained ankle, an obnoxious first aid officer, and a near-miss with a nighttime cyclist, we made it in almost one piece."

"_Almost," _she agrees light-heartedly. She braces herself against the doorframe as she slips the key into the lock and lets herself inside. When she turns back to him, she feels a nervous stirring in her stomach. "Would you, um, like to come in...?"

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and smiles, shaking his head lightly. "As inviting as that sounds, I'd better leave you to rest up," he says. _Honourable and noble—check and check. _"I had a really great time tonight, even if it is only nine-thirty."

"I concur," Amy replies. "Best time I've had in quite a while, actually."

He snags his lower lip between his teeth, that smile unfaltering, and leans in to give her a kiss on the cheek. It lingers, just a little, and she relishes the scratch of his clipped facial hair against her skin. "Me, too," he says quietly as he pulls away. "Goodnight, Amy."

She watches him go, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to call out to him before he descends the stairs. "Jake?"

"Yeah?"

Her pulse races. "Saturday night, I was thinking you could come over for dinner—if you don't have plans. I'll cook, we can watch a movie..." She lets go of the breath she hadn't realised she was holding. "Say, seven?"

There's a mystery in the way he looks over her then—from top to toe, with a mix of happiness and perhaps a little hunger. It's something she's never seen before, not once, when a man has looked her over. "See you at seven," he says, and grins. "_Sharp._"

* * *

Sixteen weeks, three days and seventeen hours after Sheldon Cooper left, Amy Farrah Fowler received a single-line text message from one of her friends.

_He's back. _


End file.
